


The Good Man

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Guy Fawkes Night, Other, Paternal Lestrade, reunion with John, serbia's consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: Sherlock's return, from Lestrade's POV. If you want to know what happened after that bear hug, this is your story. Watching from the sidelines, Greg knows something is more than not right with Sherlock, but it takes time for him to figure it out. After all, he doesn't have quite the same deductive skills as the World's Only Consulting Detective.





	1. Chapter 1

He was tired. It was late. And a Saturday night to boot; not fair. The Homicide Assessment Team wanted his opinion about a case, before they assigned it to a Murder Investigation Team. Presumably his, otherwise he might not have bothered to pick up the text.

"We tried Dimmock, but he's not answering his phone." The HAT officer was apologetic.

Well, Greg knew that Dimmock was off with his latest girlfriend, 'meeting the parents'. Greg, on the other hand, had no one to impress anymore, so he'd shouldered on a jacket over his checked shirt and casual trousers and gone to the crime scene. Anyway, he had a soft spot for the HAT team. Saturday evenings were a boring round of television and take-out, so any excuse would do. He'd been procrastinating lately by throwing himself into cases as if there was no tomorrow, so why break a habit?

Lestrade knew himself well enough to know why he was procrastinating. Thinking about the case at hand meant he had less time and energy to think about cases past- or one case in particular. An unsolved case- the death of Sherlock Holmes.

The DI had never bought the idea of Sherlock committing suicide.  _The idiot was too arrogant to care what other people thought._  The idea of being exposed by the tabloids as some sort of fraud? Well, it made no sense. Unlike most people who read the tabloid stories, Greg knew something else, too. He'd found the body of James Moriarty, AKA Richard Brook, on the Barts rooftop*, but the case was taken away from him and the Met the moment security service officers arrived. He'd been bundled off the roof and sent home. The Chief Superintendent of Detectives had banished Greg from the Yard for weeks, while IAB investigated whether the Consulting Detective was guilty of the fraud which the tabloids wrote about.

Sherlock would have treated those accusations with the distain that they deserved. As it had been proven just this week, the allegations were finally put to rest by the Public Enquiry.

A piece of Lestrade wondered what the hell had taken the authorities so long. The Met's internal inquiries had been over within a year. Every single one of the cases that the consulting detective had ever worked on was re-opened and painstakingly reviewed. Within four months, the MET knew enough to be sure it was a frame-up.

Of course, Greg wasn't party to the investigation. He'd been relegated to the Homicide Assessment Team- trundling around London to consider whether a reported homicide was sufficiently serious enough to warrant being assigned to a Murder Investigation Team. The Chief Superintendent was a cost-cutter. And every time the Met opened a Murder Investigation, it would end up costing more than a £100,000. So, he'd been told that if there was no chance of conviction, then he'd better find insufficient reason to investigate. Time and again, Greg had found himself thinking how much he'd learned from Sherlock. He established something of a reputation for himself on the HAT team, simply because he could imagine a bored baritone telling him he was an idiot for mistaking a suicide or an accidental death for a genuine murder. Over the years with Sherlock, Greg had learned to assess crimes carefully, lest they fall foul of the man's "Don't bother me for anything less than a six, Lestrade."

Greg welcomed the HAT posting as better than gardening leave. He wondered whether a certain minor official in the British Government had been responsible for the assignment that came a month after his suspension, but he'd not had the courage to contact Mycroft Holmes after the funeral.  _Don't look gift horses in the mouth._

It was Philip Anderson who came to him six months on, and told him what was being found by IAB's investigation. From being Sherlock's most vociferous critic, Anderson had undergone a conversion on the road to Damascus. He was now convinced of Sherlock's innocence. Guilt was driving his protestations that Sherlock was innocent and that the Met should not delay any longer in telling the truth. Then Anderson was caught trying to brief a newspaper about the findings, laying the blame at the feet of the Chief Superintendent himself. That earned him instant dismissal from the Forensic Service as a result. Bitter with disappointment and now unable to find anything other than part time lab work, Anderson joined the ranks of those who argued that Sherlock Holmes should be exonerated. Almost a cult, the group was responsible for putting up posters, spray painting graffiti, holding meetings- all of which Greg watched with faint bemusement.

"He wouldn't have thanked you for this, Anderson." Every so often, Greg would finally agree to meet the former CS Examiner at a pub. But whatever Greg said, Anderson seemed determined. The DI tried to counsel him to move on, but the man would only talk about yet another case where the Consulting Detective had been proven to be right.  _Guilt has made him obsessive._

It was a feeling that Greg understood. He'd tried hard to deal with his own guilt about the final days of Sherlock Holmes. The arrest, the conversation at Barts, Greg's inability to stop what he could see was coming- they all preyed on his mind when he let them.

He found it hard to talk to John Watson in the aftermath, but tried. He watched the man let things slide, quietly dealing with the aftermath. John seemed to hold no grudge against Greg, which he was thankful for. But, he was remote and withdrawn, dealing with his grief privately. Not that Greg was good company. He was dealing with his own grief and his own frustration. When it came down to it, Sherlock was the one and only thing that John and he had in common, and it was painful to spend time in each other's company because it was a constant reminder of their loss. All they could talk about was how much they missed him, and Greg didn't need reminding. One look at John's face told Greg that the doctor didn't need reminding either.

So, once Greg got back to work with the HAT team, he let the work carry him forward. Contact with John dwindled and then lapsed pretty much for good by the end of the first year after Sherlock's death. He'd passed on some things he found in the box of his desk things when he moved back to the Murder Investigation Team offices; they'd been put in storage, but reappeared on his desk the day he returned, to the applause of his old team.

When the Public Enquiry was launched six months ago, he did spot John in the gallery. Lestrade was called briefly to give evidence, but the focus was mostly on the tabloid papers and how they had accepted Moriarty's lies about Richard Brook and persecuted the consulting detective without evidence. The Public Enquiry finally forced the Yard to make public the evidence of their internal investigations. Then under cross examination by the Enquiry panel, it came out that the Chief Superintendent was in some way being blackmailed by Moriarty. He resigned under a cloud, and Greg allowed himself to feel happy about that fact.

Anderson was ecstatic about the news, and met up with Greg at the nearest pub to the Enquiry. That's when he'd explained his latest hare-brained idea- that Sherlock Holmes was still alive. Greg tried to talk him out of it, but the man was almost fanatical. When Greg was at a vendor selling coffee outside of the Enquiry on the morning the results were supposed to be published, Anderson cornered him there spouting the same idea. Greg could only try to talk him out of it. They raised their coffee cups in a mock toast to "absent friends."

That was just over a week ago. The papers and websites had been full of the news for a couple of days, but now the agenda seemed to have moved on. In some respects, Lestrade was glad. The news had made it hard to NOT think of Sherlock. And he missed him. Seeing it all rehashed in the press brought back so many memories. A skinny sixteen year old high as a kite telling him what an idiot he was the first time he was officer in charge of a homicide crime scene. The times before John, when Lestrade despaired of keeping Sherlock under control and out of trouble. The occasions when the young man's addictions got the better of him, as well as the recoveries that followed.

Today's call had been a case in point.  _Sherlock would have loved this one._ The HAT team had been called to an old terraced house in Whitechapel that was due to be knocked down and replaced with yet another block of expensive flats for the rich bankers working in Canary Wharf. The surveyors working their way through the abandoned and ruined terrace had found a skeleton dressed in old fashioned clothes sitting at a desk. They'd leaked it to the press, who made it into a front page "who done it". But, the HAT team wasn't prepared to open a murder investigation if it was the remains of a body that had been there for a century. "Might as well call an archaeologist," the officer argued. Before deciding, he wanted Greg's opinion.

The place was creepy, covered in dust and full of cobwebs that suggested no one had been anywhere near the cellar for decades. The crime scene was utterly devoid of evidence that could be traced to any perpetrator. No finger prints, no blood, no footprints. The forensic team had been baffled. Greg felt there was something wrong about the whole set up, but couldn't put his finger on it. It was late Saturday night by the time the Forensic crew cleared off.

"I'm going to sit on this for the weekend, Chambers. Maybe I can figure it out, once I've had a chance to think it through. Don't say anything to the media; they've got enough mileage already."

The HAT officer just sniggered. "Yeah, well this guy isn't going anywhere, is he? Take all the time you want. We'll just say it's indeterminate at this moment. When you want to decide, give us a shout. The demolition guys have given us a month."

He taped up the cellar door, and headed back to the Yard to file his draft report on the HOLMES2 database. He didn't want to have to do it on Sunday. Might's well get it out of the way tonight, when things were quiet.

oOo

Down in the darkened underground garage beneath New Scotland Yard, Greg realised he was dying for a smoke. He patted his right outer coat pocket for the packet of cigarettes he normally kept there, but was annoyed to find it missing. He started to dig through the other pockets. Up the ramp somewhere he heard a sound that made him look up. On the weekends the garage was kept half dark- another cost cutting measure. Probably some other poor sod working late, tripping over something in the dark on his way back to his car.

Greg found the pack in his suit pocket. He'd wanted a smoke at the crime scene but knew better than to contaminate the evidence. He put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and flicked the disposable lighter into life, cupping his fingers to shield it against the breeze coming down the ramp.

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Greg stopped, shocked into complete stillness. The lighter flame flickered some distance from the end of the cigarette he'd placed between his lips, but his brain only registered the sound of a particular baritone voice. One he hadn't heard for two years. A voice he had never expected to hear again.

The flame started to burn the hand he had cupping the lighter, and finally triggered his stunned brain into life.

"You bastard."

Greg looked up as a familiar figure moved out of the shadows into the light. The coat, the suit, the hair- it was Sherlock, as if nothing had happened at all in the intervening two years.

As Lestrade drank in the sight, Sherlock said "It's time to come back." He stepped closer, and Greg could now see his face more clearly. A few more lines, and a red split at the left side of his lower lip.  _Recent- wonder who he let hit him? He's usually quick enough to dodge a fist._

"You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg". The correction slipped out automatically. _God, he still can't get my name right._

"Greg." Sherlock obediently repeated his name and then waited. As if the two years had not happened, Greg could read the man's hesitation.  _He's unsure of what I'm going to do. Oh…I'll bet it was John who clocked him one._

And in that moment, Greg Lestrade threw his left arm around Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him into a bear hugged embrace. He felt the taut frame flinch, but then take it.  _Yeah. I know you don't like this, but tough, you bastard; you have no idea how much it means to me to see you alive again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you want to read the back story of Lestrade on Barts' roof, read the previous story arc in the Got My Eye on You series- the Great Man. And if you want to know why Sherlock always deletes Lestrade's first name, that is covered in an earlier Got My Eye on You story; it's to ensure that the rest of the DI's Murder Investigation Team think that the relationship between Lestrade and Sherlock is strictly professional, and there is no personal bias. Of course, we know differently...


	2. Chapter 2

Once Sherlock escaped from Greg's embrace, he stepped away, putting some distance between him and all that emotion.

The DI grinned. Close up, he’d seen the swelling of that patrician nose, and the cut. “Don’t complain about a hug. It's better than me giving you a fat lip and a bloody nose like John did."

"Marginally." The younger man shifted his coat back into place.

A slightly awkward silence fell. Now Sherlock's eyes wouldn't meet Greg's.  _Some things don't change._

Greg broke the silence. "Where you off to next?"

"Baker Street." The shrug said it all.

"Oh, no you don't. Not at this hour. I'm assuming you haven't told Mrs Hudson yet."

"Nope."

"Then there is no way I'm letting you scare an old lady half to death by just turning up on the doorstep in the middle of the night- or creeping in and making her think she's got a burglar." He dragged his car keys out of his pocket and turned to his aged Audi. "You're mine tonight. Show up there tomorrow morning, when the poor dear has a chance to be awake and functional. You'll sleep on my sofa. It's not like you haven't done that before."

"I don't sleep much these days."

"So, what's new? You can stare at my ceiling and be warm." He opened the passenger side door and gestured inside. "Get in."

Sherlock didn't move. "I've been perfectly fine on my own for the past two years, Lestrade. I don't need you to 'look after me'." There was a prickly undertone in his voice.

"This isn't about you, sunshine. It's about  _me_. And you owe me one, for keeping me in the dark about this for so long." When that didn't seem to make a difference to the look on Sherlock's face, Greg added as he got into the driver's side, "Besides, you know you're dying to tell me how you actually pulled it off."

That earned him a smirk. And Sherlock did get in the car.

oOo

"I'm not hungry."

 _So that hasn't changed either_. "But I am, so you're going to keep me company."

"Why would I do that?" It was said idly, with an air of disinterest.

"Because that coat can't disguise the fact that you've lost weight."

"It's none of your business."

"Yes it is." He put the plate of penne in front of Sherlock. The pasta had tomato sauce and black olives, and Greg knew from previous experience that it was one of the few things that Sherlock would choose if he could be bothered to eat.

Sherlock looked at his steaming plate, as Greg sat down at the kitchen table and tucked into his own food. For a moment, Greg focused on the taste and closed his eyes in pleasure. He'd missed dinner, due to the Whitechapel case, and was hungry. Through his peripheral vision, he watched Sherlock fold his arms across his chest and lean back from the table.

Greg chose not to respond to the non-verbal challenge, taking a swig from the beer bottle he'd opened for himself. Once he'd swallowed, he just said quietly, "Because if you want to resume working cases, you need to prove to me that you're up to it."

Sherlock huffed. "I've spent two years without this kind of irritating behaviour."

"Yeah, but you're back on  _my_  patch now, and I get to set a few rules. Besides, I'm going to take one hell of a leap here, but my guess is that whatever you got up to while you were gone, it wasn't half as much fun as solving cases. Otherwise, you wouldn't have come back."

Sherlock was now looking at the pasta, suspiciously. "Good deduction."

"Was it boring?" It was an invitation, somewhat peripheral, but he knew Sherlock would know what Greg wanted, no  _needed_ , to know.

Sherlock decided that picking up a fork and playing with the pasta was a useful diversion. It bought him some time to decide what to say. He took an experimental bite of a single piece of pasta. "yes…and no."

"Well, that's illuminating, isn't it?" Greg tried to keep his tone light, but the sarcasm was still there.

Sherlock snorted. "But true. It  _was_ boring, in that no one aspect of taking down Moriarty's network required that much brain power, just…determination. Intelligence work doesn't really take that much intelligence; it's more about tradecraft. But it was  _relentless_ , so not 'tedious'. Never a dull moment, but never a really brilliant one either. After the basic approach was proven to work, it was just a case of making it happen, again and again.  _Tedious._  Different nuances, different tactics, occasional surprises, nothing I couldn't handle. But...rather predictable in the end."

"So, why'd you stick with it?"

"Because if I'd tried to return before the work was done, then the remnants of the network would have fulfilled Moriarty's contingency plans. The ones he put in place to ensure that no one ever tackled him. He killed himself in front of me to make sure that the plans would kick into effect, thereby forcing me…to take the steps I did. Think of it as a scoreless draw."

Greg swallowed. "Moriarty committed  _suicide_?"

Sherlock shot him a calculating look. "You thought I killed him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't get more than a minute on the crime scene before I was hustled off the roof, so no snide comments about it 'being obvious to anyone with more than a single brain cell'. " He mimicked the tone perfectly.

The younger man glared at the sarcasm. "So, you assumed I committed suicide, did you?"

"Nope. That's just something I read in a newspaper somewhere."

"I went up on the roof with thirteen possible scenarios, but in the end it was the only one that had a chance of succeeding."

"So, you're too arrogant a sod to consider suicide, but jumping off a roof to  _fake_  a suicide? Yeah, I should have known; that's more your style." Greg decided that he'd save the thirteen possible scenarios for another day. "I'll get the details later." He smirked. "But you're not off the hook. I'll expect the full Monty- angles, charts, diagrams. I've tried for the last two years to figure out how you could have walked away. Never managed to put together a convincing method." He took another sip of beer. "But then I'm an idiot, as you so often tell me."

Before Sherlock could answer, Greg stood up. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a moment." He strode off down the corridor into the bedroom. The door was left open and he knew that Sherlock would be curious, as he rummaged around at the power socket to the left of his bedside table. He sat back down at the kitchen table before Sherlock had time to finish chewing his second forkful of pasta. "So, what did John have to say about your brilliant plan, whatever it was?"

"He didn't want to know  _how_ , just  _why_ ; wouldn't listen long enough to find out my methods."

Greg looked at the grey green eyes that were now cast down at the kitchen table.  _Yeah, that must have hurt. No chance to show off how clever you are._ "My guess is that you didn't answer that question, did you?"

"I told him the truth- it was the only way to stop Moriarty; that was the whole plan."

Greg snorted, trying not to choke on his beer. When he got his breathing back under control, he said quietly. "So, you didn't tell him the truth."

That earned him a fierce glare. "It  _was_ the truth!"

"But not the whole truth."

"How would you know?"

In reply, Greg reached in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone- one which had not been used for just over two years. He tapped the screen with his finger to get it to come to life. "I put it on charge when we walked in; you'll need to give it the rest of the night to get it back up to full power."

It was Sherlock's phone. The younger man looked down at it as if seeing a ghost. Silence fell. Greg used the opportunity to eat another couple of mouthfuls of pasta.

"How did you get it?"

"Picked it up off the roof before Mycroft's boys arrived to take over. They didn't know I had it. Well, not at first. Your brother probably figured it out, but didn't say anything at the funeral, and we haven't had contact since."

That made Sherlock look up startled. "So, Mycroft never got the recording?" He sounded surprised.

"Would he really need it? You and he must have sorted things out ahead of time. It's not possible that he didn't know, approve of it and assist you."

Sherlock started to acknowledge that with a nod of his head, but then stopped. "Approve? Not  _exactly_. He was reluctant at the start. I had to…make it difficult for him to refuse."

"How on earth did you do that?" Now it was Greg's turn to look incredulous.

"That would be telling a state secret, and I won't do that." Perhaps to deflect any further questioning on those lines, Sherlock leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and waving his fork at Lestrade. "If you knew, then why didn't you tell John?"

"Finish the pasta, and I might tell you." Greg stood up and took his empty plate over to the kitchen sink and started to wash up.

Once the dishes were away, he went back into the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa going through the contents of his phone while it charged. He'd used the socket beside the sofa, unplugging the lamp, so the room was half in darkness.

"I've only got decaff; do you want one?

"I don't suppose you have any green tea?"

Greg looked askance.

Sherlock shrugged. "I acquired a taste for it while in Tibet."

"No, Sherlock. I don't have any green tea; this isn't a Hollywood hotel." He paused. "What were you doing in Tibet?"

"I went there to recover from a nasty infection. Thought I could learn a bit of Tibetan martial art along the way; think of it as physical therapy."

The thought startled Greg. And made him realise that Sherlock's casual brushing aside of what he'd gotten up to while in pursuit of Moriarty's people covered a multitude of sins. He realised, too, that Sherlock was watching him, deducing his thinking through the likely consequences of a two year one man campaign against a criminal network. Before Greg could voice the questions that were forming like gathering thunderclouds in his mind, Sherlock cut him off.

" _John_. You were going to tell me why you didn't share the contents of the phone with him."

That side-tracked Lestrade. "You have no idea, really, what watching you jump did to John?"

Sherlock's face went still, utterly unreadable, his eyes almost hooded. "No. I'm a sociopath, remember? Empathy is not my area."

"Well, I'll tell you, shall I?" Greg decided that Sherlock needed to be told. If John's reaction was to punch him, then he probably didn't get around to a coherent explanation. And, unlike John, Greg knew that the problem was partially that Sherlock did not really understand what he had put his friend through.

"You made him watch…"

Before Greg could finish the sentence, Sherlock butted in. "No, I didn't. That happened by accident. He was  _supposed_  to be 3.5 miles away in Baker Street, looking after Mrs Hudson. He was  _supposed_  to be safe or at least safer there from the clutches of Moriarty. Baker Street was being watched by Mycroft's men. I always knew he would be a target. Moriarty had made that plain since the pool."

Greg took that in, but carried on. "Maybe, but he got back to Bart's, and he had to watch. And to listen to that stupid 'note' of yours. What were you doing? It made no sense."

Sherlock sighed. "Not to you. It wasn't meant for you. It was meant for the people who were listening in. Embedded code. I had to assume that Moriarty's people were listening, via his phone, as well as watching. Mycroft certainly was listening to my call to John, and relaying the important stuff to the rest of the team. The words- 'apology', 'invent' and' fake'- all relayed something important to the homeless team about how to put the plan into motion. 'Magic trick' meant that Moriarty was no longer in the picture- he wasn't watching me. I mean, there was no point in inflating an air bag under where I was about to jump, if Moriarty was looking over my shoulder and would see it."

Greg sat back in his chair. He hadn't thought of that.

Sherlock nodded. "Thirteen scenarios, Lestrade, where I had a chance to walk away alive; I had to plan for anything."

The DI looked puzzled. "So, what would have happened if John wasn't there?"

Sherlock laughed. "It's a  _phone_ , Lestrade. He didn't need to be there. In fact, I wanted him as far away from me as possible. All he had to do was pick up. And even if he didn't, Mycroft would have."

Greg groaned. "Okay; that's me being an idiot."

Sherlock nodded. "You can guess the rest. When I told John that he could tell you, Mrs Hudson and Molly that I 'created Moriarty', I was telling my brother that you were being targeted. I hoped that he would have overheard Moriarty's threats to me, but the phone had been in my pocket then and I had to be sure, which meant using the phone call to John."

Lestrade leaned forward in his chair. Sherlock was perched on the sofa, sitting up rather tensely instead of his usual slouched occupation of the whole of any piece of furniture. Greg noted the set of the younger man's shoulders, so took his time to frame the next question.

"Yeah, about that…why  _me?_ "

"Why do you think?"

"You tell me." It was like a tennis match, both men lobbing the question back over the net.

Sherlock sighed, and then gestured with an open hand. "You've known and worked with me longer than anyone else. I'm the junkie who keeps clean for the sake of  _the Work._ You are the key to  _the Work_. Kill you, and my world would shatter."

Greg didn't know how to answer. It was logical. And not in the least sentimental. If it had been, then Greg would know he was being spun a story. He'd learned the hard way over the years how Sherlock played people, him included. This was…honesty. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, but just who the hell was the assassin after me that Moriarty was talking about?"

"Remember Hanson? The PC who was seconded to the MIT, and then to Dimmock's team? He was stuck to you like glue on the day I jumped."

Shock spread over Lestrade's face. "Jeezus.  _HE_  was an assassin?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He was got at by Moriarty. A bent copper; a gambler. At first, it was just information. Then it became serious."

Lestrade was shaking his head. "No, I don't buy it; the guy has family- a wife, a couple of little kids."

"Yes, and Moriarty  _used_  that family. It was you, or them. That's what he did. Find a person's weak spot and use it against them. Just like he used John, and you and Mrs Hudson."

"Wait a minute. That phone call to John- you mentioned Molly. Did he plan to kill her, too?"

"It was a distinct possibility. She'd played a role earlier- Moriarty used her to get into the Bart's lab, to meet me and John. Only we didn't know who he was then.  _She_  didn't know who he was. If he was willing to target you, then he might have thought she should be 'tidied up' as a loose end. He didn't know that Molly was crucial to my plans, so I had to warn Mycroft to protect her. So, I added her to the list."

Greg sank back into his arm chair. "Whatever happened to Hanson?"

"I identified him before I left the country. He was interrogated by the security services. He cooperated, once he knew that Moriarty was dead. And he gave us a few leads about the UK operation. He never met the man himself; just an intermediary. We got a description, but the man had left the country on the night that I jumped."

"I remember only that he was transferred."

"He was, but not in the way you thought. He's now serving time in one Her Majesty's prisons. Should be out shortly. After all, he wasn't actually a murderer."

"So, that's the sort of thing you've been doing for the past two years? Cleaning up the mess that Moriarty left behind?"

"That makes it sound simple. It wasn't."

"No, I'm sure it wasn't." Greg tried to stifle the yawn. It was almost three thirty and he was feeling the effects of the long day, the shock of discovering Sherlock was alive, and the whole sequence of revelations that had followed. He needed to end this conversation while he still had his wits about him.

"Sherlock, you may not need to sleep, but I do. Before that, I need to tell you why I didn't let John anywhere near this phone. Because it may be the reason he threw that punch."

Sherlock gave a wry smile. "First he tried to throttle me,  _then_  he punched me. After that I got the head butt that gave me a nose bleed. He gets…physical... when he gets angry. Then he told me to fuck off."

Lestrade shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. You didn't expect that, did you? You see, he was devastated by your death. He kept going over it in his mind. He didn't think you were suicidal…"

"I wasn't."

Exasperated, Lestrade snapped back. "Yeah, he gets that NOW. That's what makes him so angry. He thought he was  _responsible._  As a medical professional and your friend, he thought he should have seen what was coming and stopped you from taking your own life."

"I didn't."

Greg just glared at him. "Keep this up and I might clock you myself. John blamed  _himself_ \- Christ, Sherlock, you don't get it, do you? We ALL did. I  _arrested_  you. I let those bastards push me into a corner and then did just what they wanted me to do. Don't you think I felt guilty? My God, even Anderson put on a hair shirt, once he realised that he got it so wrong."

"Well, he always was an idiot. I'm not surprised he'd get this wrong, too." Sherlock leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "None of you was responsible. If anyone is to blame, it's me- for trying to stop Moriarty, for being selfish enough to want to live through it. That's what kept me going. I had to  _finish_  this, make sure none of you would be the collateral damage that he wanted you to be."

"But, we did suffer. We  _did_. You did, too."

A pair of grey green eyes locked onto Greg's. "We're alive, and he's dead. His network is broken. I think that's a victory. And I won't apologise for that. If people are going to hate me for it, well, I never professed to understand emotions. John's date tonight was right; I really don't understand 'human nature'. I thought maybe people wouldn't mind me coming back. Shows you how little I know. Good night, Lestrade."

Sherlock turned away and stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes. The conversation was over. That was when Lestrade realised that Sherlock had been hurt just as much as those he had left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know about Hansen, do read the prequel to this, The Great Man, in the Got My Eye On You series.


	3. Chapter 3

When Greg woke up the next morning, Sherlock was gone. So was the phone. It was a Sunday, so he strolled to the local newsagent, and then saw that the tabloids were already shouting the story- "Return of the Dead Detective".  _Someone leaked that in a hurry._

For the next couple of days, he decided he'd leave Sherlock alone. There'd be enough people buzzing around Baker Street, making the man deal with emotional reunions. And Lestrade had work to do. He called the HAT team and told Chambers to assign the Whitechapel skeleton case to his team. He'd sit on it for a few days. The skeleton was going nowhere, and it might make a suitable homecoming present for a certain consulting detective, once he got bored enough with the paparazzi hanging about the flat.

Watching the morning BBC news24 channel over a coffee, Greg noticed that none of the footage in front of Baker Street showed John entering or leaving the flat. He wondered when the doctor would get over his anger. He hoped it would be soon. Sherlock without John was less effective, less grounded, more volatile. That punch had hurt Sherlock more than he'd admit.

Lestrade was on his way into the kitchen with his empty coffee cup when his phone went off. One look at the caller ID, and Greg started to smile.

"Hello, Sam*. How's it going? Are you home from uni this weekend?"

"Yeah. I've seen the news. How is it even possible?" His eighteen year old nephew didn't bother to hide his excitement. He could imagine the lad turning circles as he spoke on the phone.

"Well, you know Sherlock. He's capable of surprising most people."

"Have you seen him,  _spoken_ with him?"

"Yes, yes I have."

"Then I'm telling Mum you're coming to Sunday lunch today. I want to know  _everything."_

His nephew ended the call without waiting for Greg's reply, leaving him smirking at the phone. It would be good to catch up with Sam. He'd started university in October, and Greg hoped that it was proving to be as good as the youngster had hoped it would be.

On his drive up to the north London suburb of Collingwood, Greg thought about how Sam would be dealing with Sherlock's sudden return to life. His nephew had been distressed two years ago by the stories of Sherlock's suicide- but not that you'd know it on the outside. Sam was never demonstrative. He kept his head down and his mind focused on his A level studies at college. It was what he lived for. When Sam got worked up, he never showed it, just became, if anything, even quieter. Greg had learned over the years that if he poked too much, eventually Sam would snap into a meltdown. So, he'd not pressed things. He'd been too depressed about the whole thing himself.

It had worried Carole so much. Greg remembered their conversations.

"You know what Sam thinks of Sherlock; he's put him on a pedestal for years.  _Now_  what kind of role model has he turned out to be? Someone Sam looked up to, and the guy goes and commits  _suicide_. For God's sake, that's all I need! I live in dread of missing signs of depression. It's not easy to detect in people like Sam. He's just gone so  _quiet_. He's never had 'friends'; tries to slip into and out of college without anyone noticing him. I'm so frightened of him being bullied. If it weren't for the school reports saying that his marks are exceptional, I'd be terrified."

She wanted to know if Sherlock had been depressed. "Surely, he must have been, Greg. All that stuff coming out in the papers? The drugs? Damn it, if you knew about that you should have told me, and I would have never let Sam anywhere near him. As it is, he practically worshiped Sherlock, and now he's learning that the man was an addict and a fraud."

"No, he wasn't. Not a fraud. That's just someone having a go at him in the papers. I  _know_ …" Greg then corrected himself. "... _knew_  Sherlock; worked alongside him for years. The investigation will prove him innocent."

"That doesn't change the fact that he used drugs and killed himself," she snapped. "Just try to talk to Sam. He needs help to understand that this isn't something that is going to happen to him. Being a teenager is hard enough for normal people; for him, it's tougher. They say that suicidal thoughts are something that more than half of all people on the Spectrum will suffer. I can't just ignore this, Greg."

So, while he was sitting at home, suspended on gardening leave while the Yard investigated Sherlock's cases, he'd tried to talk to Sam. Tried hard, but without much success. The more Greg tried to be there for Sam, to be a friend with whom he could talk, the more Sam ignored him. In the end, a couple of months after the funeral, Greg was surprised when Sam finally accepted an invitation to spend a day up at Silverstone, watching a Formula 1 team practicing. As they drove up the M1, Greg tried to raise the subject.

"You alright, Sam? About Sherlock dying and all that?"

Sam just looked out the window.

"It's not like he was depressed. He wasn't. And he wasn't a fraud. I don't know what happened up there on the roof, but you shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers."

"I don't. I'm not  _stupid_."

"Never said you were, mate. Just talk to your Mum every so often. She worries."

The skinny youth shrugged his bony shoulders. "That's her problem, not mine."

They spent a couple of hours watching the Williams team put their cars through their paces, testing the engines and their pit procedures. Sam was rapt with attention, and when they were walking back to the car, he nodded to himself. "Yeah. I've decided."

"Decided what?"

"I'm going to try for a place at uni. I know Mum thinks that I should go for an apprenticeship scheme at a car factory, but that's going to be too boring. Shop floors are full of too many people. Oxford Brookes has got a great BSc in automotive engineering; they won the Student Formula Team competition last year. I just have to get As on my A levels, and hope that they don't want to interview." It was the longest continuous set of sentences Greg had heard out of Sam for months.

"You'll do fine at an interview; just steer the conversation onto Formula One, and you'll amaze them." Greg was delighted, but held back his enthusiasm, lest it put the boy off.

On the way home, there was a companionable silence. Greg let him 'not talk'. That was something he'd learned from Sherlock, on the odd occasion when the consulting detective and he had spent any time together away from a crime scene. "You have no idea how difficult it is, Lestrade, to have to deal with people who want to talk all the time. Just makes me want to shout 'Shut up'. Silence is bliss; let's me think without being distracted."

So Greg was surprised when his nephew initiated a conversation. They'd just passed Watford Junction heading back into London, when Sam suddenly blurted out, "He told me I should go to university. Said it wouldn't be too boring. He said, 'Get to grips with the engineering theory; you'll like that more than having to talk with the grease monkeys .' I think he's right."

"That's great advice; good decision. Who told you this? One of your teachers at college?"

"No. It was Sherlock; he said I should never settle for what other people thought was good for me. I respected him. I get to choose, and I choose uni."

Greg realised then how wrong Carole was. Far from being a bad influence, Sam saw Sherlock as someone who made his own way through the world without compromise. His vision blurring a bit, Greg gave a shaky laugh. He could hear the baritone voice in his head.  _Sentiment, Lestrade? Don't be a bore._

And now, as he parked the Audi in front of Carole's house, he realised he was looking forward to telling Sherlock about what Sam had been up to during the two years he'd been away.

oOo

All day Monday, Greg kept an eye on the media coverage of the "Return of Sherlock Holmes". Because the man had refused all requests for an interview, the journalists' focus shifted to the steady stream of would-be clients turning up at Baker Street to the amusement of the waiting photographers. Some were admitted by Mrs Hudson, some were turned away. By late Monday afternoon, a note appeared, tacked to the door. "GO AWAY-YOU'RE BORING." That brought a smile to Lestrade's face. For a man who loathed contact with people he didn't know, Sherlock would be reaping the benefits of his instant celebrity status, combined with a two year backlog of clients bringing just the sort of weird and wonderful puzzles that the consulting detective loved.  _He will be able to pick and choose the most off-the-wall ones he can find._  It would be light relief from the drudgery of the previous two years' undercover work.

Lestrade was working through the initial forensic report on the Whitechapel case when a thought intruded. He wondered if he had told Sherlock enough about John. He'd been so tired on Saturday night that he hadn't come out and said it as plainly as he probably should have _._  With hindsight, he regretted not being blunter with Sherlock over that plate of pasta. He should have said,  _No, Sherlock,_   _I didn't tell John that you jumped to save his life, to stop the assassin from killing him. That's because John felt responsible enough for missing your suicidal intent; if I let him listen to the phone recording, he'd know that you jumped to save him. Knowing that would have broken him even more. But, now that he knows you are alive, you need to tell him the truth._

Was it his place to tell Sherlock? Would he welcome Greg's advice?

By Tuesday, Lestrade was still wondering whether he should push the issue with Sherlock. Whatever John might have done at first contact, Lestrade knew that Sherlock would be better for patching things up. And he figured John would too.  _They're both stubborn, and both in pain._

Over a cup of excruciatingly bad coffee from the office machine, Greg also went back to reconsider the fact that he'd been included in Moriarty's list. He now realised that Sherlock's explanation was probably a deflection. Not an outright lie, but certainly not the whole truth. The Irishman had destroyed Sherlock's reputation to the point where he wouldn't be able to work with the Met, even if Greg was alive, so putting him on the hit list wasn't about  _The Work_. Once the Sun story had come out, there was no way he'd be working for the Met for some time, if ever. So why had Moriarty included him?

The DI figured that John was always the real target. By wrapping him up in a semtex jacket, Moriarty had exposed Sherlock's central weakness was his attachment to John. Greg figured that he'd been put on the list to stop Sherlock from scooping up the doctor and making a run for it. Sherlock had said as much that he expected a move against John, but the recording showed that he'd clearly been blindsided by Moriraty's extension of the threat to Greg and his landlady. He and Martha Hudson were in effect hostages to keep John in play. And that implied that Sherlock cared enough about the two of them for it to work. The fact that it had- and that Sherlock had not tried to contact John during the interval- was all the proof that Greg needed.

He knew better than to expect Sherlock to be able to explain it.  _If Sam can't tell his mum that he loves her in a way that sounds like he means it, what right do I have to expect Sherlock to be able to explain anything about what he feels about me or Mrs Hudson?_

He knew enough about people on the Spectrum to just let it go. It didn't matter if Sherlock never told him what he thought about him. His actions spoke louder than any words he would never say. He'd thrown a CIA man out of a window because he had bruised and scared Mrs Hudson. He'd jumped off a roof, to make sure that John, Mrs Hudson and Greg lived. Those were facts.

To sacrifice everything he held dear- The Work, London, the comfort of familiar surroundings, faces he trusted- to push all that aside for the sake of saving a few people who had meaning to him? Well, selfish wasn't a word he'd be using to describe Sherlock in the future. Sherlock might never be able to explain his motivations in a way that Lestrade would find comfortable. So what? What mattered in the end was what the man did, not what he said. The man that he'd once called "great" had found a way to do something remarkably "good".


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

On Tuesday night, Lestrade decided to visit Sherlock. After staying late at work, he stopped into Baker Street. It was a cold night, and he was relieved to see that the chill had chased away the paparazzi. He let himself in, standing for a moment in the hallway, smiling at the key in his hand. He'd never thrown it away.  _Sentimental, I know, Sherlock_. While he was standing there, Mrs Hudson came out.

"Oh, Detective Inspector, how  _wonderful_  to see you again. I was just a bit worried that you might be one of those horrid journalists or photographers who figured a way to break in. They've just been so annoying today."

He smiled at the elderly woman. "Must be a bit of a trial to have him back again. Has he disconnected the bell again?"

She laughed. "Oh, he is incorrigible! He actually cut the wire this afternoon. I'll have to get it fixed. When he doesn't answer his, they all ring mine, and it's been driving me crazy. He offered to cut mine, but I told him not to- they'd just bang the door-knocker then, and it's even worse."

"A steady stream of clients then? He must be in his element."

"Well, thank goodness, it's been quiet for the past two hours. I tried to bring him a cup of tea and some toast this evening, but he told me in no uncertain words to go away. Said he'd been dealing with too many idiots, muttered something about being over his monthly limit for stupidity and needing time to detox."

Greg headed up the stairs, and then down the hall to the living room. It was odd to be doing so again after a break of two years. The place didn't look like it had changed at all. As he pushed open the door, he saw in a moment the same state of disorder and general mess that had always characterised Sherlock's flat.

All that was seen and forgotten in an instant, however. Greg's attention focused instead on the sight of Sherlock sitting at the table between the two windows, with his back to the door. He was wearing a maroon silk dressing gown, his right hand placing a hypodermic needle back down on the table. The left sleeve of the dressing gown was pushed up, and Greg was horrified to see the younger man pull off his bare arm a piece of rubber tubing with a resounding snap of released pressure.

 _He's using again._  Lestrade was just rooted to the spot in horror.

"Sherlock, what…what are you doing?"

"I should have thought that was obvious, Detective Inspector, even for one with as limited deduction skills as your own."

Greg shrugged the caustic comment aside. "I'm a police officer, for God's sake. I can't turn a blind eye to this!"

The seated man did not turn around. "You've entered my premises without my permission, without a warrant, without probable cause. No prosecution would ever stick. Besides, you're wrong."

Greg watched him flex his left arm, assisting the drug-laden blood flow. "Is this a bad habit you fell back into along the way, when you were tackling Moriarty?"

Sherlock just sighed. "As ever, Lestrade you see but do not observe."

"Then enlighten me." He did not hide his disappointment.

Sherlock's response was to turn and toss the small bottle of clear liquid in Greg's general direction.

Startled, the DI managed to catch it. And looked at the label. "So, not your usual drug of choice? You've swapped your usual cocaine for an opiate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Read it,  _carefully."_

This time, Greg did that. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

"It's  _prescribed_."

"So, you found a bent doctor?"

The younger man just sighed again. "No, not unless you think Mycroft's personal physician is likely to be susceptible to bribery. What is morphine usually prescribed for?"

"Pain.  _OH_! Are you…injured?"

Sherlock looked at him, his face impenetrable. He shrugged off the dressing gown, but didn't undo the sash belt, so that it fell off his chest to puddle around his waist. Greg saw the purple bruises up Sherlock's abdomen and chest, and then watched the man slowly turn around to show his back. It was a mass of bruises and barely healed welts of scar tissue, still red and angry.

"Jesus, Sherlock." Greg was horrified. He closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath. "No wonder you flinched when I gave you that bear hug."

Sherlock snorted. "That didn't hurt as much as when John tried to throttle me and I ended up on the floor of the restaurant, with his full weight on top of me. Now  _that_ did hurt. He's put on weight over the past two years."

"How…no, I can see that someone has beaten the hell out of you. The question is  _why_ and  _who?_ "

"The  _who_  doesn't matter. The  _why_  is simple- I miscalculated how long it would take to get in and then out again of a secure facility in Serbia. The guards decided they wanted to know who I was and why I was where I wasn't supposed to be. It took me four days to convince one of my captors to go do something else so I could escape. Then it turned out I needn't have bothered, because Mycroft finally got off his back-side and did something useful for once."

"Big brother to the rescue?

"He likes to  _think_  so. I could have managed without him. Turns out he needed me to come back to London to help sort out that mess." The young man pointed over to the wall behind the sofa. Greg took it in- Sherlock's version of an evidence board, plastered with odd bits of paper, newspaper clippings and photos, some tied to one another with bits of string, others with big black X marks drawn through them.

"What is it?"

"Surely it hasn't escaped even your notice that the terrorist threat level has been raised to critical?"

"Not my division, Sherlock. SO15 is a world onto itself. But, yeah, of course, we've all been told, but like every other time they do it, nothing happens and in a couple of weeks they'll announce that the level has been dropped down to normal. Business as usual."

"Not this time. Your lot haven't a clue, but what's different this time is that they've got company. The Security Service, Six and GCHQ have come up with a credible threat- but NO data about it. Not even my brother can figure it out."

Greg glanced away from the wall to Sherlock, standing beside him now, the maroon dressing gown back in place. "That's why Mycroft hasn't locked you away in some hospital to recover from your injuries?"

"As long as I can have my pain relief of choice, I'm good to go to work on this." Sherlock surveyed the wall and snorted in derision. "They ration me to one tiny bottle a day, so I use it to help me sleep." He waved at the wall. "This isn't really interesting enough to keep me awake."

"A case so big that the entire British Intelligence system can't handle it and you think it isn't  _interesting_  enough?"

"Nope. It's just a matter of putting some feelers out. Watching what's going on. Starting a few lines of inquiry and seeing what comes out of it. I have sources they don't have, and can call on eyes they can't control. Sooner or later, I will find it."

"Hopefully,  _soon enough_. Don't want to be too late on this one." Greg muttered. "So, the queue of private clients going in and out of Baker Street today- it's just a sham?"

"No." He sounded affronted at the idea. "If I can't have my pain relief of choice, then case work keeps my brain occupied. This..." He waved at the wall again "…doesn't require full time attention. It's a case of waiting and watching. I can squeeze some more interesting work in between. So anything above a six comes your way, I'm ready."

Sherlock turned away and then sat down rather heavily on the coffee table, putting his elbows on his knees and putting his head down into his hands.

"But not tonight. Morphine kicking in?"

"Hmm."

"I don't suppose you've had anything to eat today?"

"Nausea and vomiting are side effects of morphine. That's why I can't take it orally. They tried to fob me off on subcutaneous pop shots of it, but it's too slow. I asked for heroin or methadone- they work better for me as pain relief, but Mycroft wouldn't agree."

"Well, I'm not surprised. And you aren't either, are you?"

The dark head of curly hair shook slowly from side to side.

A thought occurred to Greg. "When you spent the night on Saturday at my flat, did you…?"

Before he could finish the sentence, Sherlock cut him off. "Of course not. You told me years ago that I'd never work with you again if I took drugs in your flat. But, it is the reason why I left an hour and half after you fell asleep."

 _So, you didn't think I'd see the difference between pain relief and recreational use? Oh, Sherlock!_ Greg didn't want to imagine him out on the streets, in the cold, injecting morphine- all to keep the reputation of a Metropolitan police officer intact. "If you'd told me why, I wouldn't have minded."

"Didn't want to. It's all…so pathetic."

"John doesn't know? You haven't told him about …the sniper, about…everything?"

"Of course not. He doesn't want to know. That date of his I interrupted? He was proposing to Miss Mary Morstan. He's getting married. He's moved on. He doesn't need me."

With that, he stood up. "You can see yourself out the same way you saw yourself in." Sherlock walked barefoot through the kitchen, down the hall into his bedroom. When the door was shut a little more firmly than usual, Greg noticed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  (as ever in the case of dialogue from broadcast episodes, I am indebted to Ariane Devere for her excellent transcripts)

* * *

**10.18am BORED. Save me from more private client idiots and Mycroft being a nag. Got anything over a six? Even a five will do. SH**

Greg smiled.  _The Game is on, Sherlock._

**10.24am Need your help on the Whitechapel Skeleton case. No. 6 Myrdle Street. Will you come?**

Now standing on the steps of the ramshackle house, Lestrade gave the consulting detective a look, searching for any signs that he was in obvious pain or still under the influence of morphine. Then he saw who was with him.

"Um…it's a  _skeleton_ , not a body." Lestrade eyed with some surprise the pathologist standing behind Sherlock.

"Miss Hooper is enjoying a day of field work, assisting me. She's perfectly capable of commenting on a skeleton as much as a recently dead corpse." The consulting detective swept in past Greg with Molly in tow.

Lestrade shrugged and took them through the ground floor hall toward the back of the tumbled down terrace house in Whitechapel. When he reached a door under the stairs, he tore down the police tape sealing a door to the basement. "This one's got us all baffled."

"Mmmm. I don't doubt it."

 _Just like old times; next thing is that he will call me an idiot._  Greg grinned at the thought and opened the door, then led the way down the stairs into the basement. He was delighted to have the opportunity to get Sherlock back to police work, and this case should be right up his alley. Even better than a 'locked room' case, this one was a 'bricked up body'. The skeleton had been found when builders were about to take the whole terrace apart. At the foot of the stairs, a large hole had been knocked through the brickwork of one wall. Lestrade went through and switched on the mobile lighting left over from the first forensic team examination.

A white-painted wooden table stood at the far end of the room and seated on a chair behind it was a skeleton dressed in an old-fashioned suit. The skeleton was holding an old fashioned glass syringe in one bony hand. Greg watched a frown form on Sherlock's face as he drew out a pouch of tools from his coat pocket and laid them on the table. He pulled out a pocket magnifier and approached the skeleton, bending over it and putting his face up close to use the magnifier. He sniffed.

Greg was struck by how differently Sherlock approached the scene from anyone else who had been there. Most Crime Scene Examiners arriving would first stand back and take in the whole crime area, looking at the positioning of the body in the space, trying to visualise a crime, and where a possible perpetrator would be standing in relation to the victim. Sherlock's acuity of vision meant he did all that in the few seconds it took to cross the threshold and approach a body. And he always got up close and personal- zooming in on the minutiae of detail that most forensic examiners left until later.

The two year absence meant that Greg watched the man's extraordinary skills with a fresh eye. At a crime scene, Sherlock used every one of his senses. He watched now as the younger man kept sniffing. The DI remembered one early crime scene where Sherlock had actually licked the handle of a briefcase in order to deduce who had been carrying it onto the crime scene. Anderson had gone ballistic; Donovon pulled a face and muttered "how gross." Sherlock snapped at the CSE, saying his DNA was on file and could be eliminated easily, but in the meantime, being able to detect the bitter traces of a scentless chemical would save hours of lab time, and would lead to the killer before he could strike again. When he proved to be right, Sally Donovan called him Freak for it, and the label had stuck.

 _God, I've missed the lunatic_. Unlike Sally, he meant the term with affection. After a year or so, the harrowing events surrounding Sherlock's leap off the roof faded into a dull ache of loss. Greg had lost count of the number of times he'd arrived at a crime scene since and thought  _Sherlock would have loved this one_. He'd come to realise how much he actually enjoyed working with Sherlock over the years. Despite the younger man's appalling lack of social skills, despite his habit of infuriating the rest of Lestrade's Murder Investigation Team, the DI could not resist the sheer pleasure of watching that extraordinary mind at work.  _And here he is, doing it again for me._ His smile widened into a grin as he watched.

Molly was standing back a bit, also mesmerised by Sherlock's examination. She had a notebook open and a pen poised, as if she was about to take dictation. Lestrade found it…disconcerting.  _She's not John._

Sherlock suddenly straightened up and snapped his magnifier shut.

"What is it?" Molly asked, as Sherlock pulled out his phone and held it toward the ceiling in the hopes of getting a signal. "You're on to something, aren't you?"

"Mm, maybe" was all Sherlock would offer, but there was a tinge of triumph that he couldn't suppress entirely. A split second later, he whispered "Shut up, John."

Greg was taken aback by the comment. Molly was equally confused and asked "what?"

Somewhat distracted, Sherlock replied, "Hmm?...nothing" before walking to the other side of the table and continuing his investigations. He pulled a pair of tweezers from his pouch and used it to lift the lapel of the skeleton's jacket.

Lestrade was curious. He leaned in close to Sherlock where he was bent over the skeleton, gave Molly the quickest of sideways glances and very quietly asked, "this gonna be your new arrangement, is it?"

Sherlock's reply was a nonchalant, "Just giving it a go."

Greg processed that. To be sure, he asked "Right. So, John?"

"Not really in the picture anymore." This was a cool response, devoid of emotion.

 _Oh, they still haven't managed to sort things out yet, and by the sound of it, that's not likely to change anytime soon._  He worried. Sherlock without John was…not something he wanted to contemplate longer term.

Molly and Sherlock both looked up at the sound of a distant rumbling, and then agreed it was trains. The Circle, District and Hammersmith & City underground lines all went through Whitechapel. Crossrail was being blasted through to link up east and west London, all leading to a huge redevelopment of this area. Lestrade figured that if it weren't for that fact, these old houses would have been gentrified and no one would have ever found the skeleton, safe behind its brick wall.

Greg watched as Sherlock stepped away from the table and dropped to a squat. He was looking vaguely at the floor, but not really. Molly took the opportunity to go over to the skeleton to take a closer look herself.

"Male, forty to fifty."

Perhaps the sound of her voice dragged him out of his reverie. Sherlock joined her at the side of the skeleton, provoking her to an embarrassed, "Ooh, sorry did you want to be…?"

In a slightly odd tone, the consulting detective replied "Er, no, please; be my guest." He turned away. But then muttered, as if through clenched teeth, "shut up!" Greg wondered why the hell he was talking to himself. He was used to Sherlock being weird at a crime scene, but arguing with himself was definitely not normal.

Molly exchanged worried glances with Lestrade. They both watched Sherlock pull open his pocket magnifier again to look closely at the bony hand holding the syringe. Molly returned to looking at the skeleton.

"Doesn't make sense." She was confused by what she was seeing in the skeletal remains.

The DI sought clarification. "What doesn't?"

Sherlock ignored them and started to blow dust away from where the hand was on the desk top, and then continued blowing to the edge of the table, watching how the dust lifted in response to his breath.

Molly replied to Greg's question, with a hint of how perplexed she was. "This skeleton- it's …it can't be any more than…"

"…six months old." Sherlock said it in unison with her.

Greg digested that while he watched Sherlock squat down beside the table and push on various places along the side. A compartment popped open, and Sherlock reached in to withdraw a book. He blew dust off the front cover, gave a sarcastic frown and showed it to Molly, whose eyes opened wide and she breathed a "wow!"

Before Greg could react, Sherlock dropped it onto the table with a theatrical thud. The DI read the title out loud: "How I did it, by Jack the Ripper."

Sherlock gave a sceptical snort in reply. Molly's "it's impossible!" provoked the consulting detective into a dismissive, "welcome to my world".

Grinning with surprise, Greg was trying to figure out whether this could even remotely be the real thing or just some elaborate hoax when Sherlock started to pack up his tools. Then the younger man hesitated and his hand flailed a compulsive gesture of annoyance towards his head. "Get out!" escaped through clenched his teeth.

Before either of them could react to the bizarre comment, Sherlock started talking in a louder voice to them. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you." Picking up his pouch, he started to head out the door.

Greg was having none of it. "No, please- insult away."

The younger man stuttered to a stop, then turned back to face them. "The..th..the corpse i..is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale ..." He got his phone out and showed the screen to Greg, "... a week ago."

"So the whole thing was a fake?" Greg heard the stutter, and worried.  _What's going on in there, Sherlock?_  Not for the first time since they'd arrived at the crime scene, the DI wanted to stop proceedings and take Sherlock aside. But he hesitated, for Sherlock's sake. Calling him out in front of Molly might only exacerbate things.

"Yes." This time, Sherlock turned and headed out the door without hesitation.

Rather disappointed, Lestrade replied, "Looked so promising."

From the other room, a comment drifted back, "Facile."

Molly echoed Greg's tone, "Why would someone go to all that trouble?"

Lestrade was startled to hear Sherlock's comment drifting down the stairs up from the basement, "Why indeed, John?"

Molly looked embarrassed.

Greg could only give her a comforting smile.


	6. Chapter 6

Once he'd finished the paperwork exposing the hoax, Greg left the Yard. He headed south of the river, to a particular end terraced house in Streatham. This, he had been assured by the telephone directory service, was the address of Miss Mary Morstan. He'd tried to call John, but been told by the service provider that the phone number was no longer in use. Then he'd tried the doctor's flat landline, to find the number had been disconnected. That's when he realised that John had probably moved in with this fiancé.

So, when he came up the concrete steps of the house, he saw three doorbells, one of which was Mary Morstan's. He pushed the buzzer. A few moments later, a woman's voice answered, "Yes?"

"Is that Miss Morstan? Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I need to talk to John Watson. Is he there?"

There were noises in the hallway, then the front door opened and a blonde petite woman looked curiously at him. "He's told me about you. Come in. He's on his way back from the take-away Indian around the corner. Won't be long."

She got him seated in their front room. Mary was scrutinising him as much as he was her. "Can I offer you a drink, Detective Inspector? Tea, coffee…or maybe a beer?"

He smiled. "I'm off duty. Actually, a beer would be great."

She vanished into the kitchen, allowing him time to look around. "Nice place you've got here," he said in a voice loud enough to carry into the kitchen.

Mary reappeared carrying a tray with three tall glasses and three bottles of Kingfisher lager. "I hope you don't mind lager. John and I prefer it with curry." She handed them over and glanced about the room. "Yeah, I was lucky to find it. Nice quiet street, mixed neighbourhood, not too Yuppie. I prefer real people to City bankers."

As he poured the beer, he realised she was pretty, in quite an unconventional way. Blonde hair cut short, practical. She seemed utterly at ease with him, which in his experience was rare. When people learned he was a police officer, a lot of them would react very cautiously, even suspiciously.

The front door banged, and then then the flat door opened. John came into the room carrying two bags of what smelled delicious. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Lestrade.

"Oh, I didn't realise we had company. Greg…um, hello." Lestrade heard the hesitation.

Mary came to the rescue, prying the bags from his hands. "Detective Inspector, have you eaten? If you can tolerate tandoori chicken, lamb vindalloo and aloo ghobi, you are welcome to share. We always get too much. I will fix you a plate."

"I really shouldn't interrupt your evening; I just needed to talk to John. And, well…you've changed phone numbers and your old flat didn't have the new one, so I just…"

"Tracked me down." This time, Greg heard the subtext of suspicion.

"Yes. Problem?" He decided for Sherlock's sake to not let John off the hook.

"No…just…unexpected."

Mary reappeared with plates and cutlery, laying three places at the round table. "Sit down both of you and stop being awkward." Greg decided he liked her. Direct, but always with a sense of fun underneath. What might be considered bossiness was softened by the perpetual smile.

Food was dished out and for a moment or two, all three just tucked in while it was hot. After a few bites and a swig of beer to ease the sting of the vindaloo, John broke the silence. "Did he send you around?"

"No, Sherlock has no idea I'm here, and if he did, he'd be pissed off with me."

"Well, I'm still pissed off with him, so that's two of us." He tore off a piece of nan bread and used it to mop up some of the tandoori sauce.

Mary laughed. "Don't worry, Detective Inspector, he'll get over it."

"Please, call me Greg."

"So, why are you here?" There was still a barely suppressed anger in John's tone.

"To explain something that a sociopath won't, or can't. Might make a difference to how you think of him."

"Don't bother." John muttered.

"Yes, I will bother. And you will listen. Because you've got the wrong end of the stick. And it isn't fair."

" _FAIR_?" John exploded. "I'll tell you what isn't  _fair_! A man I once thought of as my best friend lying to me for months, then letting me think he killed himself, right in front of my eyes.  _Fair_  doesn't even begin to describe someone who could let me grieve for months, two whole years, thinking I should have done something different to stop him. And then he shows up without a by your leave and just expects me to welcome him back and tell him how clever he is. Well, he isn't. Not clever, not even a bit good. He's a man incapable of feeling anything. He doesn't care what anyone else thinks. He just uses people. I just…I can't go through that again. I won't."

"John…" Mary's concern was evident. "Just calm down. Listen to what Greg has to say." When John scowled and returned his eyes to his plate, attacking the vindaloo with his fork, she glanced at the older man and rolled her eyes, then nodded at John, urging Greg on.

Greg took out his phone and laid it on the table. "There's something I should have shared with you years ago. I didn't, because I thought you would take it even harder if you had. My fault."

John looked up with real anger. "For fuck's sake, don't tell me  _you_  knew, too. Did he tell the whole bloody world?  _Everyone_  but me?"

Greg shook his head. "I found out after you did, on Saturday. But the difference is, I know what happened on the roof. I always have. I didn't tell you, because I didn't think you could handle it then. Now you can."

"What are you talking about?" John's confusion was apparent.

"Give him a chance, John. Just let the man talk."

John glared at Mary. But he leaned back from his plate and folded his arms. "I'm listening."

"Do you remember when I found you in the reception area of Barts? While they hauled you off to the nearest A&E to get that concussion checked, I went up with Dimmock onto the roof. I found Moriarty's body up there. Dead- the back of his head was blown off. I thought Sherlock killed him, and then jumped."

Mary sat forward. "Moriarty. He's the one that went on trial for all those crimes, and then claimed he was Richard Brook. It all happened when I was overseas, so I didn't hear about it until just last year. That inquiry said he was real, the one that cleared Sherlock. But they didn't say Moriarty was dead."

John had just sat there, unmoved. Now he glowered at Greg. "You… _knew_  from the beginning that Moriarty was dead, and you didn't tell me? Why not?"

"I found Sherlock's phone on the roof up there. He must have tossed it aside. I picked it up and stuck it in my pocket. And then Mycroft's lot arrived, and shoved me down the stairs. The case never got to the police, John. It was all handled by the security services. I was put on leave and told in no uncertain terms that if I ever wanted to work again, I had to keep my mouth shut." He took a swig of his beer, then continued. "But I found something on Sherlock's phone. I recorded it onto my own, because I was sure that Mycroft would show up and demand I hand over Sherlock's phone as evidence. And I didn't want to lose this."

"What?"

"Sherlock recorded his conversation up there with Moriarty. Let me play it for you, well, just the important bits." Greg fumbled with his phone and then set it back down. He opened the recording app, scrolled down and tapped, then pushed  _play_.

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

John cringed. Even Greg couldn't help but shudder. That voice. It brought back such  _awful_  memories.

"Do it? Do – do what?" There was a pause, then Sherlock's voice continued. "Yes, of course. My suicide.

" _Genius detective proved to be a fraud_. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

There was the sound of walking- two sets of feet on gravel. Moriarty continued, "And pretty Grimm ones, too."

Then Sherlock reacted. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

With some exasperation, Jim said "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." This was followed by the sound of pacing. Greg could visualise Sherlock doing it, as the Irishman continued. "Go on. For me….Pleeeeeease?"

Mary looked startled. "He sounds deranged."

John just closed his eyes, as if the memory was too painful; then whispered, "He was. Certifiable."

There was a scuffled, a scrape of gravel, a rustle of fabric on the recording. Sherlock's breathing became shorter. "You're insane."

Sarcastically, Jim replied, "you're just getting that now?" There were further sounds if a scuffle, then a whoop from Jim. Then in a deadly earnest tone, Jim continued, "okay, let me give you a little extra incentive…your friends will die if you don't."

Sherlock's pain was evident in his voice. " _John_." Greg heard the sudden intake of breath by the man sitting across from him.

"Not just John." The Irishman whispered, "Everyone."

Sherlock filled in the blank. "Mrs Hudson."

"Everyone!"

"Lestrade." Greg closed his eyes at the sound of his own name. No matter how many times he replayed this, it still shocked him to hear the pain in Sherlock's voice.

Then the Irish accent, deadly serious now. "Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now." There was a sound of further scuffling, then Moriarty continued, "…unless my people see you jump." The phone's microphone picked up the sound of Sherlock's heavy breathing. "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

Sherlock finished then sentence."… unless I kill myself – complete your story."

"You've gotta admit that's sexier." Moriarty's sneering triumph was not disguised.

"And I die in disgrace." Sherlock's defeated tone pulled at Greg. He watched John's face. The doctor's eyes were closed. Mary was watching him too, with concern.

"Of course. That's the point of this." Moriarty's petulant impatience was clear.

John gestured at Greg, to get him to switch it off. He paused the recording. "You said you found Moriarty dead." The doctor hesitated…"did…Sherlock kill him?"

Greg shook his head. He pushed the recording time on about thirty seconds and hit play.

Sherlock was chuckling, then laughing. From some distance away, the phone picked up the sound of Moriarty's outraged "What?" then "What is it?...What did I miss?" There was a sound of a thump, then Sherlock's voice almost triumphant, "'You're not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number….I don't have to die…if I've got you." The last phrase was almost sung in delight.

Moriarty's reply was a relieved "oh!" then "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am  _you_  – prepared to do  _anything_ ; prepared to  _burn_ ; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

John exchanged a startled glance with Lestrade. This was a tone of voice the doctor had not heard from Sherlock before. Utterly ruthless, almost inhuman.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels." Moriarty was dismissive.

Sherlock's voice became even more ominous. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think  _for one second_  that I am one of them."

A silence fell between the two men. The phone recorder picked up the distant sound of London traffic. Then, Moriarty resumed, but now with a shocked tone. "No, you're not." Then in a voice filled with surprise and even a bit of wonder, the Irishman continued, "I see. You're  _not_  ordinary. No. You're  _me_." He let out a delighted little laugh and his voice raised its pitch. "You're  _me_! Thank you!...Thank you. Bless you."

There was a sound as if the two men had moved away from each other a bit. Then Jim's voice continued, "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out….Well, good luck with that."

A sound of rustling cloth, then a cry of "no!" from Sherlock, followed immediately by the explosion of a gunshot, so loud that it distorted on the microphone, then the sound of something heavy falling onto the gravel.

"Oh" Mary's eyes were wide. "He killed himself? What, a gun in his mouth?"

Greg wondered for a moment how she could possibly know that from the sound, but just nodded. "Yes, I'm certain of it."

The recording played on, the sound of crunching gravel, movement of Sherlock as he must have investigated whether the man was dead, then turning away. His breathing was noisy, almost frantic at first, but in a few moments, it began to slow and steady: the sound of footsteps, then the sound of stepping onto something without gravel, followed by the noise of the phone being fished out of his pocket and then a speed dial.

The microphone picked up the sound of an answering phone ringing, then John's tinny voice, "Hello?" The doctor reached over and turned the phone off. He pushed the half full plate in front of him away; "I know the rest."

Mary looked stricken. She stood up and cleared the dishes and empty bottles. John was not looking at Greg, his jaw was working and he kept making as if to start talking, but then stopped himself. Finally, he managed to get something out. "Why…why didn't he tell me? Why didn't you?"

Mary stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the table. "Because you didn't let Sherlock get a word in on Saturday. And if you'd been told earlier, before you knew he was alive, you would have felt even more responsible. That's why."

The doctor looked up at her, and tried to get his breathing under control. She closed the distance between them and bent over to hug him where he sat. "Poor you. Damned if you knew, damned if you didn't. Don't blame Greg. In his shoes, I wouldn't have told you either."

She released him. John still looked stricken. "Oh God, do you know what I said to him? In the lab at Bart's when he wouldn't go with me to Baker Street- I  _shouted_  at him. I cursed him, told him he was a machine, and that friends protected people."

"He heard you, John." Greg needed the doctor to hear the rest, so he carried on. "He said that you were supposed to be miles away from Barts, protecting Mrs Hudson, not anywhere near the place. He didn't want you to watch."

John put his head into his left hand and rubbed his brow, as if to remove the sight of something. "Is that why he was so weird on the phone? He was making no sense during that final call."

"I asked him about that. It was full of code, to the people below, because he knew Moriarty's people would be listening in. He put in phrases that meant something to the homeless network who were helping him get off the roof- which option he was going for. Mycroft was listening in, relaying it to them. The fraud thing, when he said to tell people he was a fraud- it was a list of people to be protected. He always knew you were a target, but he didn't think that I or Mrs Hudson would be. Personally, I think Moriarty put us on the list to make sure Sherlock never told you, if he managed to survive the confrontation somehow."

That made John look up, confused. Mary worked it out first. "If, after he convinced Moriarty's people that he'd jumped, Sherlock contacted John later, to tell him he was alive, then he wouldn't have been able to stop you trying to find him, to help him taking down the network. That would have left Greg and Mrs Hudson exposed. The network would have known he was alive…and they'd be killed."

John clenched his fists on the table. "Why isn't he here, telling me what an idiot I've been?"

"Because he thinks you don't want to have anything to do with him. Haven't been able to forgive him for faking it." Here the detective ground to a halt. "He needs you, John. I don't know what the hell happened to him over the past two years, but…well, he's started hearing voices. He was at a crime scene today and it was weird. He kept talking to someone who wasn't there."

"Tomorrow, after work. I'll go see him." Greg saw Mary's smile and matched it with one his own.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know more about Sherlock's habits of talking when John's not there, read my other story entitled *Still Talking When You're not There*


	7. Chapter 7

Greg was munching his way through a take-away pizza slice, savouring the sharp tang of the pepperoni, when his mobile went off. Juggling the slightly greasy fold of pizza dough in one hand, he fished around on the coffee table for his phone. He found it eventually under the sports pages of the Evening Standard.

He had just enough time to swallow as he saw the caller ID. It was Sherlock's old number. Sherlock  _never_  rang, he always texted. He knew that John Watson was supposed to be calling by at Baker Street tonight; Greg hoped that nothing would have interfered with their much needed reconciliation. Both men were hurting, and for both their sakes, Greg wanted an end to the distance between them. "Hello?"

He could hear Sherlock's voice in the distance, "Come on, COME ON!" Then, realising that the call had been picked up, Sherlock's firm baritone rattled off like a machine gun- "Lestrade! I'm reporting a crime. Get officers here immediately, secure the scene and keep all these people here so we can catch the perpetrator!" His voice was raised to a slightly higher pitch than normal.

"What's the crime? And where are you?"

"Attempted murder, the park outside St James the Less, off Moreton Street, SW1. It's  _John_. Someone drugged him, abducted him and put him inside a Guy Fawkes bonfire they've just lit."

Greg's brain caught up with the rapid fire facts delivered by Sherlock without a breath. "Watson?! What the hell?"

"Lestrade, don't witter; make the call. Ambulance is already on its way." The line was broken and Greg was left staring in dismay at his phone. He dropped the pizza onto the plate, wiped his hands on his paper napkin and started searching for the right number.

oOo

Later, he learned that the team from the Belgravia Police station on Buckingham Palace Road managed to get to Moreton Street in only four minutes. Bypassing the central control room for 999 calls and getting an officer to phone it in was a smart move by Sherlock. By the time Greg got there the scene was already taped off, and officers had set up some emergency lights and were interviewing the people who had not managed to leave the scene before they arrived. Other officers were using fire extinguishers to put out the burning wood. There was no sign of an ambulance. The officer in charge of the scene said it had left fifteen minutes ago. No, he didn't know who the victim was or what state they were in, but "that bloke does." He pointed over to where Sherlock was standing aloof from everyone, staring at what remained of the burning bonfire.

As Greg came up to him, he caught a whiff of singed wool lingering about the tall figure. The light of the flickering flames seemed to reflect in his eyes, changing them from their usual green grey to gold and orange. Gently, Greg asked him, "Where's John? Is he going to be okay?"

The sound of the DI's voice broke through the younger man's concentration, and he turned to look at the older man. There was a smudge of soot across his cheek. "Taken to the nearest A&E- St Thomas. Smoke inhalation, cuts, bruises. Doesn't look like serious burns. Oh, and drugged- a paralytic of some sort."

Greg took all that in, especially the staccato phrasing, rather than Sherlock's usual fluency. "Why? Who would do that to John? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"That is  _the_  question."

Sherlock had that look about him that worried Greg. The consulting detective was assessing things, sifting through evidence, trying to put puzzle pieces together- and not getting anywhere. Over the years, Lestrade had come to recognise the signs- a particular kind of stillness. Usually on a crime scene, Sherlock was in constant motion, swooping from one tiny piece of forensic evidence to another, a whirlwind of analysis and deduction. When he stopped for any length of time, then Greg knew that something was not working. And it was also odd, damned odd, that the man wasn't now prowling the halls of St Thomas, demanding in a strident baritone what was happening to John.

"Look, the locals can handle this crime scene. The lads will get the information- who organised the bonfire night, who built it, and we can check out the local CCTV to see if anything turns up about how John got put into the bonfire. They'll get the evidence to the labs. I'm going to the hospital to check on John, and you're coming with me. When he recovers consciousness, we'll need to talk to him, find out if he knows anything about who did this to him and why."

Sherlock looked away from Greg, back at the last few flames as they died down. "His fiancé went with him. You go; he won't want to talk to me."

Greg realised that John had not yet had the chance to see Sherlock, who had no idea that the doctor's attitude was a bit different now. He watched the younger man's inscrutable face. But, that was suddenly replaced by widened eyes, then a breathy "OH!" Sherlock tilted his head as if something surprising had occurred to him. He whispered, "Mary Morstan."

Lestrade prompted, "Yeah, she's John fiancé. I know. I met her yesterday."

" _She's_  the one who got the message about John. Why  _her_?" He drew breath and then was off. "She was smart enough to know it was a skip code, but she didn't know what it meant. That's interesting in itself, but I'll have to think about that later. She came to me, and I figured out where he was. The person who set this up kept texting  _her_  phone all the way here, but he was taunting  _both_  of us. One of the texts on her phone actually mentioned  _me_  by name. So, either he was watching or he somehow knew we would be together. How did he  _know_  that?"

Sherlock started pacing, turning tight circles, talking out loud, "Timing…timing is the issue." His thin fingers steepled under his chin, he was talking to himself. "Were they monitoring our progress? A text told us that we had a 'Stay of execution- two more minutes'. So, they were obviously watching this park and something threw their timing out. Did they want us to find him and to rescue him? Or did they want us to arrive after he'd been killed? Lestrade!" This last word was shouted, as if he was unaware that the DI was standing right next to him.

Sherlock looked about himself as if startled to find where he was. Greg watched his confusion with increasing alarm. The younger man waved at the uniformed police officers taking statements in the corner of the park. "That's what I need your officers to check- exactly the timing- who did what, when. It's crucial. Was this revenge, or a warning? Did the person know I would take the short-cuts I did, so we got here when we did? Or was he assuming that I would follow the roads? If we hadn't taken the bike down the steps and on the pedestrian underpass, we'd never had made it on time. John would be dead."

"Bike?" Greg was confused.

Sherlock snapped back at him, "Yes,  _bike_. What do you not understand about the idea of a motorbike? I commandeered one. Mary rode pillion." He gestured over in the general direction of the corner of the park. In the dark, Greg couldn't see much more than a dark shape on the ground. Sherlock continued, "Not a proper one like your Norton, just a kid's off-roader. Wish it had been; we could have got here faster. But even that one was quicker than taking Mary's car. Did the kidnapper know I would do that, instead of Mary driving? It's crucial to the timing." He resumed pacing, fisting his hair in frustration. "Not enough data. I need  _more_."

Greg wondered how close to a meltdown Sherlock was. In the firelight, the older man had seen that his pupils were not constricted.  _So, no time for tonight's morphine dose._  By personal experience, Greg knew that bouncing a motorbike down a flight of steps was painful*, not to mention having Mary Morstan holding on, banging up against that injured back of his. And Greg could no longer ignore the scent of singed wool that was loitering around Sherlock.

"Did you get burned trying to get John out?"

"What?" The consulting detective looked annoyed at a question he obviously considered a  _non sequitur_.

Greg tried again. "Were you injured yourself? What about your back? The bike and throwing those pieces of wood around, dragging John out of there could have re-opened some wounds?"

Sherlock just shook his head. "I'm  _fine._ "

Greg was about to argue with that assessment, when the sound of a mobile phone cut him off. Sherlock fished his out of his pocket, glanced at caller ID and answered. "Is he alright?" Greg watched as a multitude of thoughts seemed to scatter across the younger man's face. Then, he just said, "We're on our way" before breaking the call off.

"John's awake, and Mary says we can go talk to him. Come with me to get his statement. We need to put time and place together." He started to stride away towards the gap in the metal railing fence that surrounded the park. Over his shoulder, he called to Lestrade, "Hurry up!"

oOo

They saw her down the corridor from the waiting area of the Emergency Department. She was looking tense, but when she saw Sherlock and Greg, a big smile erupted and she hurried to meet them.

"He's alright. A few cuts, some second degree burns on exposed bits- a cheek and his hands. He's awake, pretty groggy, but the drug has worn off. Tox screen's been done, but it will be awhile for results. It was most likely ketamine- fast acting but long lasting- we'll know more later. It's probably why he had such a strange reaction when he woke up- a bit of hallucinations. He's probably going to be held overnight to keep an eye on his respiration- with possible smoke inhalation issues or longer lasting side effects of the drug. But, I think he's going to be fine." Mary was calm, professional and in control.

Sherlock looked down at her, as if assessing her performance. Then his brow furrowed. "We need to find out some things about timing, when and where he was abducted, what he might remember about being put in the bonfire. It will help us find the person who did it."

She nodded. "Yes, go talk to him. He's waiting to be admitted. Second set of doors on the right, third curtain."

He looked down the corridor, but hesitated. "You go, Lestrade."

Mary smiled. "Sherlock, he's not up to hitting you again, so you can relax."

He looked at her as if not quite sure how to react. She exchanged bemused glances with Greg and then gently giggled.

"That was a joke, Sherlock. He not only wants to see you now, he was on his way to Baker Street when he was abducted. You'll only have a few minutes tonight, but it should be enough to get what you two need…and what he needs from you, too."

Sherlock looked down the corridor again. Sighing in exasperation, she took him by the hand and led the way. Surprisingly, Greg noticed that he did not flinch from her touch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is NOT like me to argue with Moftiss canon, but if you, like me, felt a tad annoyed at the "switch" idea on the bomb being how Sherlock stopped the explosion, then here in the second part of this chapter and in the next chapter is an alternative that is a little more believable.

In the two years since Sherlock's 'departure', Lestrade had conveniently forgotten how inconveniently the man's telephone calls could be. In less than a week, he'd rediscovered this tendency- and the fact that when the calls did come, it was always crucial to pick up.

It was the evening of the day after- twenty four hours after John's stint as a Guy on the bonfire. Lestrade had a busy day sorting through the interview statements, the limited forensic evidence and the CCTV reports. The bonfire had been built by volunteers in the neighbourhood, and wood had come from all sorts of donations. He couldn't guarantee it, but he figured that John might have been delivered in a wooden wardrobe that was shoved into place to serve as one side of the heap. A wardrobe door left open at the crucial moment and an extra shove would have thrown a limp form into the space at the bottom of the heap. CCTV wasn't helpful about the wardrobe, which had come like much of the rest of the salvaged wood in the back of a white van. The licence plates proved it had been stolen from north London that morning. The two who unloaded the van were white males under six foot, wearing black jackets and jeans. A day's worth of CCTV scrutiny by an officer eventually tracked the vehicle from the Baker Street area down to Moreton Street at about 5.15. But it was dark by then and no faces were visible.

The statement John gave to Lestrade and Sherlock at the hospital that night had been a little disjointed, but the bare facts were there. He'd left the practice early at four o'clock, and travelled by tube to the flat, so roughly 4.30 was when he'd been pounced on by two men right in front of Baker Street at dusk. He hadn't noticed anyone following him to the flat, but then "I wasn't particularly expecting anything, was I?" The doctor had eyed Sherlock a little fiercely at that point, and Greg felt the younger man shift a little beside him, as if uncomfortable with the comment.

Mary stood beside the hospital bed on the right; Lestrade was on the left side of John. Sherlock had hung back a bit, still uncertain about his being there.

"What happened next?" Lestrade wanted John to focus.

"The first one bumped my shoulder walking by to distract me, the second one jabbed me with the hypodermic. I struggled, but the drug was fast acting, and I just couldn't move. I was still conscious on the pavement for a second, but then it was lights out. Next thing I knew I was waking up in the dark, totally paralysed. I could hear people's voices, but not see them, because I couldn't turn my head. Then I smelled smoke, then a minute or so later, petrol, and then felt flames. Eventually, I managed to get some control over my voice and started calling out for help. I heard Sherlock and Mary calling out to me, and then I was pulled free."

"Would you recognise again the two who abducted you?"

"Possibly; they didn't hide their faces."

"I'll send a photofit guy over while their faces are still fresh in your mind."

"Don't bother." This was said in a quiet baritone.

"Why not? It's the only lead we've got!" Lestrade was surprised.

"Because whoever organised this would have used unknowns to do it. They're called  _clean skins_ \- no record, no prints, no history. He's too professional to be caught by something so simple. Trying to chase down the drug won't work either- it will turn out to be something quite generic and easily sourced."

"You don't know that, Sherlock."

"Balance of probabilities, Lestrade."

John looked tired and worn, his face pale except where the cuts were bandaged and a cheek that looked sunburned. "What's going on, Sherlock? What haven't you told me?"

"I did tell you. There is a terrorist threat against London. I am investigating it. Someone must have figured that out, and decided to leave a warning. I'm sorry, John. Your being a target is why I left London two years ago, and why I didn't tell you I was alive. I did not expect this sort of thing to happen again."

With that statement, Sherlock turned on his heel, pushed the curtain aside and left the other three looking sombre. Before anyone could react, a nurse with a wheelchair arrived and announced that John was being moved upstairs to the respiratory unit for overnight observations, and didn't they all know that visitors' hours ended twenty minutes ago?

Lestrade bristled a bit. "Nurse, this is a police investigation; I need this man's statement." She and Mary helped a shaky John into the chair. Before he was taken away, Lestrade gave John a reassuring smile. "The photofit guy will be quick, I promise. I'll keep you informed of our progress tomorrow, John."

oOo

This time, when his phone went off, he was driving toward John's flat to do just that. The doctor had been released in the morning after a comfortable night. Switching on the hands-free blue tooth receiver, Greg was quick to pick up. But, this time, it was a text from Sherlock.

**5.18pm Bomb plot Parliament tonight. Tube car involved. Arrest Lord Moran. Get to Westmin Sta NOW**

For a split second, as he digested the significance of this text, Lestrade lost all concentration on the road. Fortunately, there were no cars in his immediate vicinity and no unwise pedestrian chose that moment to step out in front of his car. Then training kicked in. Greg switched on the car's blue lights behind the radiator grill and hit the siren, whilst doing a handbrake turn. Then he called the control room with the alert- and sent the text straight to SO15, the Met's Counter-Terrorism command.

It took him eleven minutes to make it to Westminster. As Lestrade showed his badge at the barrier erected half way up Whitehall, he could see that people were being escorted from the Cabinet Office, Downing Street, The Foreign Office and the Treasury buildings, moving up the road towards Trafalgar Square. When he reached Parliament Square, he could see passengers being evacuated from the tube station, led back over the Westminster Bridge towards Waterloo station by Transport Police. There was also a steady stream of MPs and Peers leaving from the Houses of Parliament's St Stephen's Gate entrance, marshalled by uniformed officers onto Parliament Green and from there into the streets south of the building. Lestrade knew that the evacuation of the seat of Government was practiced regularly and that the assembly areas would be in Smith's Square- conveniently close to MI5's Thames House on the Embankment, where any ministers would be swiftly relocated, away from danger.

He gave up trying to get Sherlock to return his call or text. As soon as he hit Whitehall, the phone service dropped out.  _Standard operating procedure._  Mobile networks were shut down to stop any terrorist using a phone call to set off a bomb.

Two thoughts warred in Lestrade's mind. He hoped to God this wasn't a hoax, because otherwise a lot of important people would be seriously annoyed at one consulting detective. And at exactly that same time, he hoped to God that it  _was_  a hoax, because the idea of a real bomb going off in such a sensitive place would be just…too horrible to imagine.

Lestrade moved against the human tide slowly, but eventually made it to the station entrance, guarded by a machine-gun carrying SO15 officer. He showed him his warrant card and told the man that he had to go down into the station and find out what was going on.

"Sorry, sir, no one is allowed down there until the Special Ops boys get done. Too dangerous."

"Officer…" Greg looked in vain for a badge that identified the man's name, and then remembered that SO15 never identified its people, for fear of reprisals. "…I'm the one who got the original tip-off about this whole thing, so your team down there needs to know what I know."

That made the uniformed man reach for his airwave and mutter a few sentences into it. There was a pause and then the radio crackled into life. The DI heard a tinny voice give the order- "Let him through. We're down on the concourse between the northbound jubilee line platform and the circle and district lines."

Greg shouldered his way past the officer before he could speak and started across the deserted ticket hall area towards the down escalators. He vaulted over the ticket barriers, idly wondering if his jacket pocket with his oyster card was in close enough proximity to the sensor for it to debit for the journey.  _Let's hope I'm not on a one-way ticket._  Lestrade was no coward, but facing down a criminal was rather different from being a bomb victim.

He knew that without a phone signal, he was unable to locate or contact Sherlock. But he knew with utter certainty that the consulting detective would be on the hunt for the bomb- and the best chance of defusing the situation lay in Greg giving him whatever backup he needed.

"Please evacuate the station. All train services have been suspended. Remain calm and make your way to the nearest exit. London Underground wishes to apologise for the inconvenience." The public address system echoed down the empty escalator as the automated message repeated again and again.

When he got to the lower concourse, he saw the knot of black flak jacketed officers- a sort of mobile command centre. A Transport for London officer had a large roll of maps spread out on the floor. One of the helmeted figures looked up and spotted him. "You Lestrade?" He beckoned him over. Next to the officers were a party of five figures in bomb protection gear, but their face visors were up; the men were awaiting instructions.

The officer in command was a veteran, with just as much grey hair as Lestrade. The DI wondered if he had been involved in the 7/7 tube bombings. The man snapped, "I need your opinion and I need it fast. Which tunnel?"

Greg rehearsed Sherlock's text in his mind. There'd been no indication of  _where_  the bomb was. The commander barked, "I must ask you to hurry, sir. There is no one on any platform according to CCTV images, so where's your man? We tracked him and another person with him down to this level and then he vanished."

He looked around the brightly lit concourse and saw nothing that gave him any idea of where Sherlock might have gone. He heard a sarcastic baritone in his head. " _You see, but you do not observe, Lestrade_."

He wracked his brain. "His text said a 'tube car' was involved. That's odd- not 'train' but 'car'. Is there anywhere a single carriage could be?"

The TfL officer with the station maps shook his head. "There are no sidings. Nowhere for it to be."

"Oh, it's here alright. We're just not looking the way he does."

"Clarify that or we have to make a choice. We have no time to waste. We should send the bomb disposal team down the tunnel that is closest to the Houses of Parliament. That's the circle and district line. The air vents are in Parliament Green and the underground NCP carpark is another likely place for a bomb. We've got a team in there already searching the cars."

Greg shook his head. "You'd've seen him on that platform's CCTV if you were right, and I'm guessing you didn't."

The commander shook his head.

Greg thought about what seemed half a life-time of chasing behind Sherlock, trying to figure out where he might have gone. Like a bloodhound, once the man was on the scent, nothing stopped him. That's when Greg's eyes focused on the set of grilled doors across the concourse.

"Where do those go?"

The TfL officer looked at the map. "Stairs down to the service corridors between platforms."

Greg had a hunch. "Right, gentlemen, I think I know where he went…"

oOo

The command crew stayed put to manage the aftermath if a bomb did go off. Only the TfL officer and the bomb squad followed Lestrade through the doors and down the stairs. Torches on, they passed the first access point to the westbound circle and district line, and then past a huge air vent towering over their heads. One of the bomb squad pointed up- and Lestrade spotted a number of small packages that were blinking, attached to the walls of the vent. The bomb officer shook his head- "Not the main charges, these are ancillary."

Down another flight of metal stairs and the access door to the northbound jubilee line appeared. The TfL officer started to push the metal bar that would open the doors, when Lestrade's attention was caught by a gleam of light to the left. He stopped the man and asked "What's down there?"

The officer looked confused. "Nothing. There shouldn't be any lights on down there."

Greg pulled him away from the door, now almost sure. Instinctively, he knew Sherlock was drawn by the inexplicable. "He's down there."

The team followed the light source to another short metal ladder down, and then they realised they were standing on a train line. The lit tunnel curved around a bend.

"Watch the live rail! If there are lights on, then somehow someone has powered up a train line that doesn't exist." The TfL man was clearly perplexed.

Greg laughed, with just a hint of hysteria, "with a train car that can't be there, probably carrying the bomb that really shouldn't be here. And that's where Sherlock will be."

They started down the corridor, keeping wide of the live rail.

"Wait!" Greg shouted at the others. "Listen."

The seven men stopped, held their breaths and really listened. A metallic tapping, on one of the rails. The sound was carrying right around the bend.

"What is it?"

A grin emerged on Lestrade's face. "Ooh, you clever bastard… what do you do when you can't use a phone? That's Morse code!" He started counting taps, allocating dots and dashes. "t…u…r…n"- that's 'turn'- …o…f…f"

The taps continued but Lestrade shouted- "turn off the power. He wants us to turn off the live rail."

The TfL man was already on his airwave giving the command. A moment later, the main lighting system went out. The only thing left breaking the darkness were the small battery powered emergency lights strung along the tunnel every fifty feet or so. The tapping stopped immediately.

"Hurry up- that light won't last long. I doubt these have been used in years." The TfL man led the way. When they came around the bend, the torches of the bomb squad picked out the sight of a darkened carriage. The back door was open, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were sitting on the first step down. A familiar baritone drifted down the tunnel, echoing.

"Took you long enough, Lestrade."


	9. Chapter 9

"Whoo- hoo."

Sherlock put down his bow, and turned to look at Mrs Hudson standing on the threshold of the living room. It was almost noon, and he was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He took the violin down from under his chin, a little gingerly, as if his shoulder was stiff or sore.

"A nice man from Fortnum & Masons has just arrived, Sherlock. It's from your brother."

She got the man to put the delivery on the coffee table, and signed for it, as Sherlock returned to the window and looked out at the crowd of journalists in the road. He sighed and stepped back from the window.

"Oh, look, Sherlock- it's a hamper of food. All your favourites!"

"Food? What would I want with  _food_?" He looked perplexed at Mrs Hudson.

"There's a card for you." She handed over the small envelope, which Sherlock opened. He sniffed and handed it back to her.

She read it out loud, " _At least your guests can enjoy themselves. Welcome back, brother"_. It was signed with Mycroft's rather tidy and yet old fashioned signature. "Well, that's thoughtful of him. I really do think your brother is pleased you're home."

Sherlock had a face on. "Guests?  _What_   _guests_? Mrs Hudson, have you been meddling again?"

She looked a bit sheepish, but still smiled. "Just a few people. You haven't had a proper 'Welcome Home' party. You deserve one."

The furrow between his brows deepened. "What makes you think I want to have a  _party_? Why would I inflict such a punishment on myself?"

"Shush- it's not for you. It's for the people who missed you when you were gone. You'll survive it. Now go get dressed, or you'll still be in those clothes when John and Mary get here."

The little gathering was Mrs Hudson's idea. "A celebration of all sorts of things" is what she called it. "A bit of a surprise, because if I tell him ahead of time, Sherlock will try to find somewhere else to be." She invited just those people that she knew he could tolerate. So, John and his fiancé, Molly and hers, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft. The elder Holmes had politely declined, but said he would 'send something appropriate.'

It was Saturday afternoon, two days after the bomb plot was foiled. The newspapers on Friday were full of the story, and rolling television news couldn't get enough of it, either. Lord Moran had been arrested and charged with offences under the Justice and Security Act 2013. The counter-intelligence services were all rushing to the media to explain what they were doing to defend the country against future attacks of this nature. The tabloids were full of "Gunpowder Plot II" and painting lurid "what if" tales about the extent of the destruction that would have happened if the bomb in the tube carriage had actually gone off.

By Friday night, someone in the police force had leaked to the press the source of the "tip off" and the role that Sherlock and John played in locating the bomb. Lestrade had his suspicions of who the culprit was. The only people who could have known for sure were the SO15 team and the bomb squad at Westminster station. Of those, Greg thought the commander was the likeliest candidate.

The grey haired veteran had made a point of thanking the consulting detective. When Lestrade brought Sherlock and John back to the concourse, he'd taken his helmet off and shook Sherlock's hand. "I was involved in the operation on 7/7, and never wanted to live through another one like that. Thank you. It's not enough, but it's all I can say."

After the news leaked, 221b became besieged by journalists and paparazzi, hoping for an opportunity to interview the man who was now being called "London's Hero Detective."

So, when Greg arrived for the lunchtime drinks party on Saturday, he had to run the gauntlet of newsmen, cameras and shouted questions. Some of the journalists present knew him from the past, and wanted to know if it was "business as usual." He had been warned by the Metropolitan Police Communications team not to talk to the press; the issue would be handled centrally. So, he gave a wry smile as he pressed through the crowd and just said, "No comment."

John and Mary were already in the flat, and Sherlock was in his bedroom still getting dressed. Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes when she said that to the Detective Inspector. "Hiding more like it. He really doesn't like parties."

Greg sat down on one of the hard chairs at the table, and was encouraged to forage through the contents of a rather splendid hamper of goodies. "Find something you like, Detective Inspector. Lord knows, Sherlock won't miss it" She poured him a glass of chilled vintage champagne.

"So, John. I didn't get much of a look in once the CT lot got you aside for a debrief. Care to fill me in on what actually happened? Or are you going to make me wait for the blog? I still don't get how that train line didn't show up on any map." He bit into a smoked salmon canapé.

"It was a bit of tube line that had been built but abandoned before it ever opened, which is why it never appeared on any map. God knows how the terrorists found it, but Sherlock figured it out. And the missing train carriage was just sitting there in the dark, so we got on it. Hadn't been there for less than a minute or so when suddenly the lights came on- the power had been switched on from somewhere."

The doctor bit into a cheese straw, and then washed it down with the champagne. "At first, it looked empty. And I have to say I was a little relieved, because I thought that meant the bomb hadn't been put on board yet. It took us another couple of minutes to realise that the whole train car was the bomb. Under each and every seat cushion was the explosive. And then Sherlock pulled up a compartment on the floor and there it was, with a digital display counting down."

He closed his eyes and shuddered a bit. Mary was sitting next to him on the sofa and reached over to pat his hand.

John then just nodded and continued. "Turned out that someone's Mind Palace has a rather gaping hole in it. He's not infallible."

A baritone voice came down the hall. "You're the military man, John; only fair that you might have had some sort of relevant training. I'm a consulting detective, not a bomb disposal expert." Sherlock came in, wearing his purple shirt and smart trousers, but without the suit jacket.

"Yeah, well. I'm a doctor, not an infantryman. So, we ended up looking at each other thinking it was the end of the road for both of us." Here he gave a glare at Sherlock that somehow managed to convey some affection as well as exasperation.

Sherlock looked away, unable to hold John's gaze. "I said I was sorry."

John sniffed. "Turns out he eventually figured out how to stop the timer, but dragged it out just enough to get me to forgive him for disappearing for two years. Now, I'm more cross that he played that trick on me than I am about him not keeping me in the loop when he went off to play with Moriarty's network."

Greg almost choked on the mouthful of champagne he was about to swallow. " _Play_? I don't think I would call it play. Bloody awful business, I am sure…"

Before he could say anything about the wounds that Sherlock had brought back with him, the younger man cut him off. "…and you should have seen his face when he realised I was playing him. I hopped down from the carriage and started the tapping to get the power cut off."

"Sherlock, how the  _hell_  did you know that anyone was coming or that they would hear and understand your Morse code?" The more Lestrade had thought about it over the past two days, the more worried he had become. It could have so easily gone wrong.

"Well, I always had a contingency plan. If push came to shove I would have grabbed the metal fire extinguisher in the carriage and thrown it onto the live rail to short it out. Once I realised that the bomb device depended on the power supply, we were never really in danger."

John muttered, "Bloody show-off."

"Well, it was only logical." Sherlock was a tad defensive. "The whole apparatus started up when the rail come on. That's how they got around the fact that it was too far below ground for a phone signal to reach. Someone in the know knew which switch to hit. Forensic examination found a cable had been rigged to tap into the existing power supply for the two tube lines. It was enough to divert the carriage there in the first place. The last train stopped just long enough to disconnect the last car, which always has the capacity to go on its own- that's why tube trains never have to turn around. Makeshift signalling equipment was used and then dismantled overnight, so the District and Circle line drivers never knew about it."

Mary was listening with great attention. "So Lord Moran couldn’t have been the only one involved? There's been no news about other arrests."

Sherlock smirked. "My brother is  _finally_  making a contribution. The driver of the last train from Westminster has been found enjoying the proceeds of his crime in the Caribbean. A London Underground engineer has been taken into custody. I have no doubt that eventually Mycroft's minions will round up the minnows."

Greg raised his champagne glass. "To you, Sherlock. Because of the work you and John did, London is a safer place. Welcome home."

Apart from the consulting detective, the others in the room all raised their glasses and chorused, "Welcome home, Sherlock."

From Sherlock's bedroom came the faint sound of his phone ringing.

"Expecting a call?" Lestrade saw the smile forming on John's face.

"Yes, a distress call from my brother. He's doing something he really would rather not do- accompany our parents to a theatre performance."

"Speaking of performances, Sherlock, you need to deal with those reporters out there, or poor Mrs Hudson will never get any peace. Do you want me to go with you?"

That made Sherlock stop his journey down the hall just long enough to say, "Always, John. Never doubt that for a moment."

That made Lestrade hope that what ever happened in that underground train, things between the two men were more settled now. 

Greg caught Mary's eye and smiled, getting one in return.


End file.
